Mobius: United We Stand
by blindsniper33
Summary: Mobius has found itself the new target of the Xorda-Black Arms galactic war. The opposing forces will surely wipe the planet clean from life, intentionally or not. While the countries of Mobius quarrel with each other, can they band together to overcome this looming threat? Mobian, Overlander, Human, each will need to set aside their xenophobia and unite under one flag; Mobius.
1. Divided We Fall, Part 1

**A/N: This little fanfic is trying to expand on Mobius, the world where Sonic and his buddies frolic, play, and run so fast they liquefy everybody's insides. Wait, what was that last part? Oh, that's right, Mobius has consequences now...**

**Sonic is still going to be in this story; it takes place in the early Sonic universe, but in a more alternate reality. Think the Ultimate Marvel series.**

**I'm not trying to use any OCs. I dug deep for some notable G.U.N troopers to make a squad. However, the only OCs are cannon fodder and some diplomats.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sonic the Hedgehog or Sega.**

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Prologue - Divided We Fall (1/2)

_There's this romanticized version of the Guardian Units of Nations floating around people's heads, making its rounds through Mobius' population. They think we're just a bunch of animals toying with military equipment and causing childish mischief with no real consequences. No. Not even close._

Soldiers coughed throughout the transport boat as they anxiously awaited their departure from the craft. Bodies twitched, hands fidgeted, legs shook, fingers tapped uncontrollably against their weapons' triggers. Behind their covered faces, the soldiers were terrified of the upcoming conflict that would ensue. Faint whizzing sounds grew deafeningly louder until they were silenced after slamming into the water, spraying the crew and kicking up the scent of sweat, blood, and salt.

_A lot of young Mobians that get recruited think they're the next Sonic the Hedgehog. Not everyone could be like the greats. Too bad they realize this when it's too late. They won't be remembered, the U.F. doesn't really care about the five jackasses that call themselves Zero the Demonic-Artificial Wolf, or whatever the hell, that tried to play hero._

The operator of the transport boat fed orders to the other drivers, among other ramblings, on the radio. He steered, or at least tried to steer, the slow vessel from the barrage of projectiles. He wiped his irritated eyes, the salt water continued to rain down on him and the soldiers up front. He looked to his left for a moment, more projectiles hit the water until one landed a direct hit on the boat next to him. The resulting explosion left him and most of the soldiers struggling to hear through the induced ringing.

_In the end, it doesn't matter. Anyone, Human, Mobian, Overlander, or otherwise that are willing to pick up a gun and give their lives for this country are heroes in my book. While the fat cats and bankers are cozy in Station Square or Central City, we're out here. We're out here doing what matters for all of Mobius, not just the United Federation. Sometimes, though... sometimes things aren't this black-and-white._

"This is it! We hit the beachhead in roughly thirty seconds!" The operator yelled to the crew, specifically talking to the sergeant, who was only identifiable by his rank being on the front of his helmet.

The sergeant turned to the rest of the soldiers, "Thirty seconds! Westwood, pass it down!" He bellowed out louder than the gunfire.

The masked soldier looked down to his jacket, unfortunately, 'Westwood' was written on his left breast-plate. He took in a deep breath under his balaclava, "Thirty seconds!" His voice was much higher, that of a young man. He was able to be heard by the soldiers in the front, snapping them out of their terrified trances.

Upon hearing this, the soldiers grew more anxious, "No, no, I can't be here! I have to get out! I have to get out!" One of the troopers dropped his carbine and grabbed the edge of the open boat and lifted himself over. The other soldiers yelled in protest, grabbed his legs and tried to pull him back down. The fleeing trooper kicked back at them until a line of gunfire cut through him, ending his yelling.

The rest of the soldiers, including Westwood, ducked down in the fetal position with their arms covering their helmets. As the line of bullets thoroughly shredded the boat, each trooper prayed they would get lucky. Fortunately ,the wave of rounds passed ended and the soldiers got up. Westwood quickly scurried to the back of the line of soldiers, thinking this was the safest.

As soon as they got their composure back, the boat jerked to a stop. The soldiers all stared at the door, which was marked with the famous G.U.N logo, through their tinted goggles. Westwood cleared his throat from the back, "S-sir?"

The sergeant looked up towards the sky, "Hold steady, boys. We wait for the Blues and Vulks."

Ten agonizing seconds passed with the only sounds being gunfire, explosions, and the screams of the unlucky soldiers. The operator of the boat rose up from his seat, looking at the fleet of fighters, "Air support's here, boys!" The operator yelled to the men.

The troopers watched on as the squadrons of Blue Eagles and Vulkan fighters flew overhead. The noise emitted from the fighters' engines blasted through the soldiers as the jets flew over the beach. The sergeant raised his arm up, "This is it open the doors!" The soldiers obeyed and two of the identical troops released the locks on the door and prepared to charge out.

Westwood took one last look behind him, noticing a Vulkan fighter take a direct hit from an anti-air missile. The jet was almost blown in two, the entire aircraft spewed out black smoke as the pilot struggled for control. The plane collided with the soft sand next to their transport boat, causing a deafening boom and sending shock waves that sent the boat dangerously rolling in the air.

Unable to grab anything, Westwood was mercilessly thrown into the ocean water. As he took his last breathe through his mesh balaclava, the salt water rapidly filled his his mouth and pocketed inside his mask. As he sunk down, he witnessed his boat roll on to another transport craft, the water carried the cringe-worthy sound of sheering and bending metal to his ears. Westwood felt his rear plant lightly on the sea floor, kicking up a cloud of sand that seemed to dance throughout the water before settling back down.

Westwood stared at the sun shining brightly through the surface of the water, it was the brightest he had ever seen it before. Westwood grabbed his throat, quickly realizing he had been submerged. The surface looked like it was miles up, he had no chance to breach for air. That didn't matter to him.

Out of sheer determination he lifted his legs up and prepared to push himself upwards, but quickly drew a breathe of sweet oxygen. The bitter sounds of the ensuing battle that raged on the beachhead filled his ears once more. The sight was too much for him to take in; G.U.N units, dressed head-to-toe in tactical black, charged up the beach hill. It seemed like a losing fight, the horde of black soldiers were constantly being gunned down and cut short by the machine guns that were placed in a line of residential houses along the beach. Smoke trails from missiles and rockets filled the sky, crossing paths like a smoky spiderweb. The once pristine beach was now littered with the bodies of soldiers and debris from everything from aircraft to pieces of brick and mortar.

A trail of bullets snapped Westwood back to reality, each one kicking up a little splash of water in front of him. He let out a surprised yelp and began running to shore, his legs trying to push past the weight of the water. With a glorious splash Westwood made it on the beachhead, he made a beeline towards a mangled Vulkan that had crashed nose-first into the sand. He could not feel anything, he was too focus on the cover the downed jet provided. The buzzing of bullets flying near him simply made him run faster. He dove down and slid behind the large wing of the jet, meeting up with several other soldiers already behind it.

None of these men had the rank to command, all of them privates like Westwood himself. He crouched down near the center of the wreck, where he thought was safest. He took a long look behind him only to see the shoreline now tinted a deep red with spots of black poking at the surface, along with the destroyed transport crafts.

"Quite the sight, eh?" Westwood faced another masked soldier, he leaned out of the safety of the wreckage and sent a quick burst from his light machine gun down the beach. The red stripe on his shoulder identified him as demolitions, but his explosives weren't present, "Brass set us up to fail! Has to be!" He yelled over the gunfire.

Westwood simply continued to stare at the man, "W-what?" He did not actually hear this man's words, his mind still in shock from the fight in progress. The man did not respond, he simply continued to shoot at the houses up hill.

"Hey you! Errr, 'Westwood?'" His attention was grabbed by yet someone else, "At least that's what's on your tit, hehe..." This man looked way too scrawny, but not too scrawny for his yellow stripe; communications. His giant backpack housed everything needed for... Whatever those guys did. The man grabbed an assault carbine from the sand and tossed it to Westwood, "Catch."

With a grunt, Westwood felt the carbine hit his chest and fall to his feet, "Ha, nice catch," The man replied to his actions. Westwood furrowed a brow to the man's attitude under such conditions, but picked the weapon up, "Why don't you help our buddy over there shoot at those tiny, little doll house, would ya?" He pointed to the demolitions man who had not stopped spraying in the general direction of the enemy.

"Sure," That was all Westwood could muster before he made his way over to the side of the wreckage. He took a deep breathe and slid out of cover. Westwood held the carbine to eye-level and carefully aimed it towards one of the many houses.

He took a shot.

Then he took one to the chest.

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**That's it for part one. Feel free to count all the tropes and cliches in this shameless D-Day knock-off.**


	2. Divided We Fall, Part 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sonic the Hedgehog or Sega.**

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Prologue - Divided We Fall (2/2)

_The sun._

The sun was truly beautiful. So full of life, so full of intrigue. It illuminated everything so brightly, almost as if it were right on top of Mobius.

"This is Victory Three, beachhead is a no go. Victory One, Victory Two, Victory Four, confirmation on fail safe. Repeat, confirmation on fail safe, over!" Westwood snapped awake from the nearby shouting. He could feel the sand digging into his vest and uniform. He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain in his sternum prevented it. With a grunt of pain, he fell back down on the soft sand.

"This is Victory Four, no confirmation, Victory Three, continue with forward advance, over," The voice conflicted with the radio static as the operator on the other line spoke.

_I don't know why we were even fighting that day, well don't get me wrong; I knew why we were fighting, but still. The beach was so beautiful, if my buddies weren't buried there, that's probably where I'd retire._

"Victory Two, the line is holding, b-"

A few seconds passed, but the radio remained silent, "Victory Two, copy?" Again, what seemed like hours dragged by, "Victory Two, are you there?" Westwood lifted his head, he had been dragged back to the cover of the jet. There were even more soldiers here than before of all shapes and sizes, but each sporting their sleek black uniforms. Most of them were not even fighting back, just simply crouching behind the downed fighter. The former wing loomed over them, with the G.U.N insignia chipping off the metal. It provided shade from the heat and cover from the enemy fire.

The communications specialists paced back and forth with his radio, spewing out various slang words and jargon that Westwood could not even begin to comprehend, "He's been like this for the past couple minutes," Westwood heard a deep, sultry voice to his right. He looked to said direction, another soldier was kneeling over him and was tending to his wound.

Wait, wound?

"I didn't think you were getting up, you were out cold for a while," She continued, touching his chest. As soon as her hand made contact, Westwood let out a painful yell, "Sorry, but at least the bandages are still holding."

Westwood stared at the female soldier through his tinted goggles, "Huh? Bandages?" He lifted himself up despite the pain, "Oh, no," His combat jacket ripped open and his vest undone, his bare chest covered only by a thin layer of bloodied bandages.

"The bullet wasn't too deep, I got it out for you, bud." She patted Westwood on the helmet.

He looked at her shoulder, she had a red stripe, "You did this? But you're..." She nudged her head to the right and Westwood followed. Another soldier with a green stripe, the medical one, the one she needed, was laying against the wreck with most of his face missing.

"I tried medical training, didn't work out for me, but I still know some stuff."

Westwood gulped, "How much?"

"Well, I dug out the bullet with my fingers," She wiggled said appendages in front of her. Westwood, looking at her gloves, covered in sand, ash, and other undesirable substances, quickly began rapidly breathing. He thrashed about the ground clawing at his neck before passing out once more, "Shock... Damn, why did I say that?"

"Victory Three this is Broker Seven, nuts and bolts on their way, E.T.A ten minutes. Repeat, nuts and bolts ten minutes out, over," The communications specialist's radio began to sound again.

"Copy that Broker Seven, we'll hold the line until then, over," He replied, yelling into the radio over the gunfire.

"Negative Victory Three, get our guys away from your current position, about half a Klick out, over."

The specialist threw down his pack and rummaged through his equipment. Finally pulling his arm out, he revealed a pair of binoculars. He dropped down to his stomach and crawled out of the safety of the wreckage. He removed his goggles and set them on his helmet revealing a small patch of tan skin along with his eyes before he lifted the binoculars to them. Grabbing back his radio, he rested the binoculars down, "That's a negative Broker Seven, we go half a Klick out, we'd be right on top of the enemy positions, over."

"Make it happen Victory Three, we need the space, over."

"We can't! We'd be cut down before we reach half a Klick!"

"Do it, or die Victory Three, over."

The specialist threw his radio against the wreckage, smashing it to bits, "God dammit!" The rest of the, possibly fifteen or more, soldiers looked at him, "We got to move from here," He simply said to the rest of the soldiers.

The female soldier looked down to Westwood, "We have wounded, we can't move!"

The specialist nodded, for probably longer than he should have, "Then we get crushed to death."

"What?" The rag-tag group of soldiers stood in silence, now only gunfire filled the air.

"What are you talking about?" The demolition expert set down his light machine gun, "We run; we die, we stay; we die. What the hell?"

The specialist "Yeah, I know, but we have to try something..."

The demolitions expert picked up his weapon, "I knew it! I told you the brass set us up!" The moved over to the female soldier, still leaning over Westwood's unconscious body, "He still alive?"

She rested her hand on his neck, "Yeah, I have a pulse," She replied after feeling his artery.

"You're in charge of him then."

She looked down at Westwood again, "Lucky freakin' me."

"Don't drop that attitude, Topaz. Might be the last you use it," He told her before walking back to the communications specialist.

"Thanks... I guess," The female soldier, Topaz, lifted Westwood over the back of her neck and rested him on her left shoulder.

The demolitions expert took a peek around the wreckage, it was utter chaos; no cover in sight to fit fifteen soldiers. The beach turned an ashy black with puddles of deep red. He scoped out a crater caused by artillery shells before the land invasion begun, it could fit maybe seven guys if they were lucky. Unfortunately, the group could fit once the casualties have set in.

"You know, we're going to need someone to provide covering fire. I may need your light machine gun," The communications specialist finally spoke up.

The demolitions expert kept his gaze on the battlefield, "Nah, you're a scrawny guy. You'd never be able to handle Moira."

"Moira?"

"Shut up," He looked down to his weapon, "I'll lay down the fire support, you just make sure these guys make it to that crater," He pointed to his referenced spot.

The communications expert patted him on the shoulder, "Thank you, you're a tru-"

"Just get them ready" He cut the specialist off.

The specialist nodded, turning back to the group he took a deep breath, "All right guys, this is it! Stay on me, as soon as we leave you'll see a small crater in the ground! If I get hit, run for that or any other spots you find!" The group of soldiers uneasily stood up in understanding. The specialist looked back to the demolitions expert and they shared a nod.

The demolitions expert moved out of the wreckage and began to fire at the houses, "Covering fire!" He screamed with the sound of the shots firing off.

"Move!"

The group sprinted in unison, a pair of fifteen footsteps sounding like one. Topaz, with Westwood's added weight, had trouble keeping up with the group, she eventually fell to the back. As the group moved, a couple of the bodies hit the ground like piles of rocks in combat gear and with a puff of red mist spewing out. Topaz maneuvered her way through her fallen comrades with relatively great success. The specialist still held the lead, being much quicker than the rest of the soldiers, he was seemingly dodging the incoming hail of gunfire.

The specialist slid into the crater just before the artillery shells began raining once more, decimating part of the running group. He looked on from the safety of the crater as the group began to fall one by one from artillery and machine guns alike. He gripped his carbine as tight as he could, wishing for this entire invasion to be over, but then he was finally greeted by another soldier who made it.

He had no stripes, he was just infantry, but the specialist was still glad to see him, "Anyone else still alive?" He yelled to the infantryman.

He shook his head, "I don't know I wasn't looking!" The artillery drowned out his reply.

Against all odds, another soldier made it through, again just an infantryman, "You! Did you see anyone else?" The specialist asked the other soldier.

"Yeah, that Topaz girl, she's still kicking!" The soldier replied, the specialist peeked out of the crater and saw her, still carrying Westwood. The three started shouting encouragements towards her, but she couldn't hear past the artillery. Topaz could only muster up a slight jog from the exhaustion, despite the large amount of adrenaline coursing through her.

Unfortunately, the enemy guns finally hit a mark, a shell blasted behind the two, sending them to the ground, "No!" The communications specialist climbed out of the crater to the two troopers.

"Hey! What the hell are you doing? They're dead!" One of the infantrymen stood up after him, only for the other one to drag him down.

"Dude's lost it, let him go," The other soldier told the infantryman.

The specialist found his way through the smoke until he saw the two bodies, he grabbed on to the epaulettes of both with each hand. With all the strength he could dig up, he pulled them to the safety of the crater, much to the shock of the other soldiers. Collapsing from exhaustion, he looked out to the ocean behind him.

There they were.

It had been ten minutes, right on time. The beautiful armada of transport helicopters and gunships were pouring out of the horizon like a metallic wave of rejuvenating water.

"Victory Three this is Broker Seven, nuts and bolts have arrived, I repeat nuts and bolts have arrived, over."

The specialist reached into his combat vest's pocket and pulled out his radio, gripping it tightly and still gasping for air, "This is Victory Three, you're free to land, over," He set the radio down with a sigh of relief, still catching his breath. He looked down at Topaz and Westwood, the latter of which started to stir, and the former... something wasn't right.

He leaned over a bit from his sitting position, her left leg. It wasn't there, just a mangled bloody stump, "Oh shi-"

The gunships returned fire to the houses while some of the transports landed on the edge of the beachhead and others hovered over the beach. Outside the landed transports, waves of Hunter combat drones raced out on to the battlefield wielding heavy caliber machine guns. They soaked up the enemy machine guns while dishing out even more damage. With expert accuracy, the drones fired upon the entrenched enemies, while only a small few fell.

From the flying transport choppers, F-6t Bigfoot combat walkers fell towards the beach with heavy impact, disintegrating any dead, or unlucky G.U.N units from underneath and destroying the wrecked Vulkan the specialist once took cover behind. The combat walkers peppered the houses with their chain guns while providing proper stopping power from their anti-material missiles. With the first wave of drones and walkers, the line of houses were now rubble with all occupants dead or dying.

The specialist looked towards the sky, the sun still shining brightly in the sky, "This had better be worth every life it took."

"Yeah, why would this place have WMDs?" One of the infantrymen responded.

"I know, Soleanna is just a glorified vacation spot," The other added.

The specialist looked back down to the dead bodies, the smoking rubble, the blood-stained shoreline, and drones continuing to fire upon the rubble line of former houses, "No, not anymore. Soleanna's a graveyard."

_Those guys saved my life that day. If I did even one thing differently, we might not be having this interview. That woman, Topaz, lost her leg because of me. The guy in charge of the demo squad, dead because of me. I don't even know his name. My friends, the one's I knew? They all died when the boat flipped over. So, to answer your question: what being in G.U.N is like... It's not worth the college tuition, you're better being unemployed than working for the president, its crazy. Then again, in G.U.N, at least for the combat forces, we're all crazy. We're crazy in a world where blue hedgehogs run at supersonic speeds and two-tailed foxes make better equipment than the Mobius' dominant superpower. That, Ms. Garcia, is true crazy._

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**End of the prologue, so please tell me what you think. Or don't, you're in charge of your body after all.**


	3. Hired GUN

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sonic the Hedgehog or Sega.**

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Chapter 1 - Hired G.U.N

"So what you're saying is our military is letting mentally ill soldiers protect our borders?" The reporter, one Scarlet Garcia, asked the man she was interviewing. She shoved her tape recorder into his face waiting for his reply.

Westwood took a long drag of his cigar and blew the smoke out to the air, adding to the thin cloudy haze hovering over them both, "No, no. That was just a joke. G.U.N has a very... extensive mental evaluation for all of its servicemen and women."

Scarlet brought the recorder back to her lips, "Really? Well, that's reassuring. What is it like?"

Westwood nodded his head, "Some boring white guy checks if you're another boring white guy. If you are, then he gives you your badge and gun," Westwood responded, flashing his G.U.N badge and taking another hit of his cigar.

"Another joke, I'm guessing? Very funny," Scarlet said, her face looking completely unamused.

Westwood cracked a smile, "I like to think it's my humor that got me through my service so far."

Once again, Scarlet stretched her arm out, putting her recorder right in Westwood's face, "Speaking of that, whatever happened to the other man who was with you? The communications guy?"

Westwood tapped his cigar on the tip of the ash tray on the arm of his chair, "Oh, you mean Herman? Last I heard, he left G.U.N for some mercenary group."

Scarlet furrowed a brow, "He left to become a private security contractor?"

Westwood let out a chuckle, "Yeah, that's a real nice way to put it," His voice then switched to one full of general disgust, "He's just as dirty as any other deserter. After Soleanna, he changed. For the worse."

Scarlet, now intrigued by Herman, kept prying, "Do you know what he is doing now?"

Westwood leaned back in his chair and sighed, "Uh, I think Topaz mentioned he was somewhere in Shamar. We tried keeping in touch with the rest of the guys that survived, but he was the hardest," He took another puff of his cigar before putting it out, then wiped the stray ash from his dress uniform "We weren't his friends anymore. He found new ones; money and good old Spangonian wine."

"Shamar? I thought the U.F. pulled our troops out of the region. Why would he be there," Scarlet leaned forward in interest, waving the smoke from in front of her face.

Westwood looked up to the lone ceiling light that dimly kept the room from being draped in darkness, "Topaz said something about some defected scientists. They were selling some schematics for the ARK's old eclipse cannon to the Shamari military. Or at least they were trying to..."

_Go on._

_Uh, it was pretty serious stuff, I'm not sure why the Federation didn't get directly involved. Probably because we just left. Makes sense in hind sight, send a couple of paid muscle to deal with your problem, instead of another military operation, and the average Joe is still head-over-heels in love with you._

_Are you sure this is something we should even be talking about?_

_You wanted a story, right?_

He kept running, the cool night's air filling his lungs with each pant as he just kept moving. The forest's many trees consumed his vision, he was running blind, but he couldn't stop. He looked to the night's sky, the moon hung low, lighting his vision. Any moment it would happen.

"Blade!" He heard a familiar voice cry his name out. It was her's.

Blade looked back, his black fur concealing him in the forest's shadows, all but his blood-red eyes, "Serenity! I told you not to follow me!" He screamed back to the white fox, "I can't control myself!"

She ran into Blade's arms, hugging him tight, "I don't care if you're a Werehog! I love you!" She gripped his body tighter.

Blade removed his leather jacket and put it on her, revealing his muscular chest, "I love you too, but I don't want to take that chance," Blade's red eyes started to fill with the blue of his tears.

Serenity looked up to Blade with a reassuring smile, "But it's a chance I'm willing to take for you..."

"AUGHHHHHH!"

Static.

"AUGGH-HHHH-HHHHH"

More static.

"God dammit, tell me the power's out again!" The purple weasel smacked the television set. It was an old appliance, one that they would sell twenty years ago, the dirt and damage to the set showed its age. In Shamar though, only the rich could afford it, "I swear if this bloody thing doesn't come back on!" He hit it several more times, kicking the dust off of his brown gloves. The dust flew throughout the hot, arid air, "I can never watch my shows in this God-forsaken hellhole!" The room was almost empty, albeit a torn up couch and television set. The morning light invaded the room in elegant beams from the openings, made to look like windows, in the room.

Another man stepped in to the room, his boots carried the sound of each individual step clearly throughout the building. The human stopped near the doorway. Dressed in a navy blue shirt and khakis, he looked like someone you didn't want to mess with. Now add the countless pouches and holsters he had strapped on to himself, and he was death incarnate, "Nack, you still messing with that?"

The weasel snapped back to the man with a look of pure fright, "O-oh, Herman!" He settled down to a relaxed grin, "How are you doing?"

Herman furrowed a brow and stepped back a bit, "Fine, I guess-"

The mercenary was cut off by the television set blaring back to life, "Blade! No!" The Werehog chased Serenity throughout the forest, his thirst for blood yet quenched.

Herman looked back at Nack, his mouth gaping open, "You're seriously watching that?" He cracked a smile.

Nack sank back and gulped, "N-no, what? Me? C'mon mate, you know Fang's the baddest of the bad," He gave Herman a thumb's up.

"Fang?"

Nack nodded, "Oh yeah, call me Fang from now on."

Herman gave a hearty laugh, "And why's that?"

"I think it fits me, you know? No more Nack the Weasel. Now it's Fang the... Sniper!" He waved he arms out in front of him, pretending to display his name.

Herman crossed his arms in amusement, "Where did you come up with that?"

Nack simply waved it off, "Oh, you know, I'm just that creative, mate."

Suddenly the television blurred once more. Serenity had made it to a house in the suburbs, she lay by the door, panting and covered in sweat. A wolf with black and purple hair came to greet her, "Serenity? What's going on?"

"Fang! Thank God I found you! It's Blad-" The television slowly began to fill with static once more.

"Are you kidding me!" Nack pushed the television off its makeshift stand. He furiously pointed at Herman, "You didn't see a goddamn thing!"

Herman put his hands up defensively, "Calm down, Nack. I won't tell anyone."

Nack eased up a bit, lowering his shoulders, "Wow, really?" His angry expression wiped off his face in exchange for a blank one, "I mean, thanks mate."

"Yeah, sure thing Fang," Herman said with a smirk.

"Shut up."

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**Thanks for reading, this chapter was just a fun little introduction to Herman, one of the main characters. He was originally just some guy from Sonic '06 that gave you that annoying Superman 64-esque ring trial thing.**


End file.
